“You’re what?” Star screams in my ear.

I hold the phone away. “I’m pregnant,” I repeat.

“How?”

“The usual way, I guess?”

“Who?” Poor thing is so shocked she’s shooting one word questions at me.

“You’ll never believe me if I told you.”

“Who?” she demands aggressively.

“Dante D’Angelo.”

“What?” she explodes.

“Do you want me to repeat his name or are you just saying that for effect?”

“But you used a condom.”

“Yeah, we did. I was thinking of suing the makers when I happened to read the packaging. Did you know that there is a one percent chance of getting pregnant even when you use a condom? It says so right here on the packaging.”

“No.”

“Those are terrible odds. God, if I had known earlier I would have made him wear two layers, but that would only reduce the odds to one in two hundred. We need a new invention. Either that or we’ll all have to stop having all this sex and—”

“Rosa, are you okay?”

“What do you think? I’m calling you from my bathroom floor.”

“Did you fall? Are you all right? Do you want me to come around?”

“No. Yes. No. I … err … am sitting propped up against the bath. I don’t think it has properly registered yet. I’m saving my total meltdown for later.”

She takes a deep breath. “Do you need an audience for that? I’m in Mayfair so I can pop around.”

“It won’t be pretty,” I warn. I can already feel my body starting to shake. Mother of God, I’m pregnant.

“How many times did you do the test?”

“Five.”

“Right. You’re pregnant.”

“You’re hurting my ear, Star.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. It’s that smooth-talking bastard’s fault. He got me into this. I’ve been having sex since I was seventeen, and nothing like this has ever happened. One night with that, that, pampered Casanova and I’m pregnant. Of all the damn men I could have got up the duff with I had to go do it with that shallow womanizer.”

“Are you going to keep it?” Her voice is neutral, but I can hear the anxiety in it. Star loves kids. She coos at random babies in the street, and she’s been buying and hoarding baby clothes for years now.

I have a sudden image of Dante’s gleaming, taut body rippling as he thrust into me. I hate him, obviously, but for God’s sake, he removed my panties with his yummy teeth … and he was really, really, reeeeeally good at what he did. I couldn’t walk properly for days afterwards.

“I don’t know yet,” I say, but even as I am saying it I have an image of a barefoot little urchin with black hair and whiskey eyes running wild in a field. Which is stupid, because I live in one of the most concrete parts of London. I’ll have to drive at least an hour to find a field. Even if I did that I would never trust my child to run barefoot, because of rusty nails, dog poop, and whatever else would be in open fields.

“Bastard,” I curse soundly, as if it’s all Dante’s fault and I didn’t beg for him to do it harder and faster.

“You mean you might keep it?”

“Maybe,” I say slowly.

“Oh, Rosa,” she breathes excitedly. “You should. It’ll be such fun. I could take care of it while you are at work or when you go out at night. If it gets too much, or you need a break you could drop it off at our place and—”

“Star,” I interrupt, “do you mind? You’re making a baby sound like a suitcase.”

“Well, in a way it is.”

“Yeah, a suitcase full of vomit and poo.”

“They’re gorgeous,” she defends.

“They scream all night.”

“No, they don’t.”

“Yes, they do. I have first-hand experience. The brat next door never stops screaming all night.”

“He has colic.”

“What if my baby has it?” Jesus, I can’t believe I said that. I’m thinking of the baby as a little person. My little person. All for me. “Oh, my God, Star. I think I’m going to keep the baby.”

“You’ll have to tell the father then,” she gushes.

I thought I’d never see him again when I slipped out of his hotel room that morning while he was still asleep. Maybe, I haven’t thought this decision out properly. I’m never, not in a million years, seeing that guy again.

Never.

And I mean never.